


In The Middle

by munchmulch



Series: the beginning, the middle, the end [2]
Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hebrew Bible, The Book of Genesis
Genre: Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Bible, Bible canonical slavery, Blasphemy, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Bad Driving (Good Omens), Gaslighting, Gen, Hagar deserved better, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Spouses, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi, Other, Slavery, The Flood - Freeform, They/Them Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/munchmulch/pseuds/munchmulch
Summary: Crawly and Aziraphale learn how to do their jobs, for a given value of learn.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: the beginning, the middle, the end [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741432
Comments: 9
Kudos: 84





	In The Middle

Things become much more dangerous for Aziraphale and Crawly once they find a human settlement.

The plan was to set themselves up with Adam and Eve, but only days after arriving they both get orders from their respective offices--temptations, blessings, and check-ins. 

"You're leaving." Eve's voice is flat, emotionless from shock and the persistent grief that finds moments to sneak up on each of them. 

Azirapale twists their hands in their lap and looks away. 

Crawly's voice is quiet. "It was only a matter of time. I thought I'd have more and Aziraphale thought they'd have less." They attempt a lopsided grin which doesn’t manage to hide the devastation. "Funny how things shake out sometimes." 

"W-we're not -" Aziraphale's voice is shaky. "We're not leaving the settlement. We'll still be here, in your house when possible, we just -" 

"Can't be seen together" Crawly finishes. 

"I-I -" Aziraphale stutters. "They're finally letting me have a bit of a miracle budget so I've, that is, I've blessed you. For good jobs and prosperity." 

Adam is holding Eve's hand, face a shell-shocked mirror of hers. "We're supposed to lose you too? And you're losing each other." 

Aziraphale claps a hand to their mouth and chokes, reaching out to clutch at one of Crawly’s hands. 

Crawly tries to smile again. "Well, give them fifty years or so and they'll probably loosen up a bit. Might be able to start seeing each other again, if we're careful." 

The four of them have been on earth for forty years, fifty is a lifetime. 

"W-we can," Aziraphale gasps, wiping at their eyes. "We need a schedule, it can't be too frequently, and we'll need to trade off, but they'll forgive us a handful of days at a time t-to -” they gasp, “b-be here.” They look to Adam and Eve, desperate. “I-If you still, want us to b-be." 

"You've got -" Crawly is clutching Aziraphale's hand so tightly that their knuckles are white. "You've got other humans to interact with now, don't really need us for company." 

Eve reaches forward to take Aziraphale's remaining hand, shaking. 

The moment hangs in the air for as long as it can. 

*** 

Work is distracting, at least. Other than the visits to Adam and Eve, Aziraphale and Crawly work nearly nonstop. 

Aziraphale's work consists mostly of trying very hard and getting reprimanded when they adjust assignments into something softer on the humans they affect. 

Crawly's consists of kicking up random bits of mischief and lying to their superiors. 

Crawly is able to work past the heartbreak and actively interact with kids within a year, it takes Aziraphale nearly a hundred. 

One-hundred-thirty years after their creation Adam and Eve have their third child. And it’s . . . a complicated mess of feelings. Even after all these years, even after how it ended the first time, it feels wrong not to be raising Seth together. 

Aziraphale and Crawly watch Seth grow in snippets, managing tantrums and bedtime stories while they're there and leaving all too quickly.

They're not his parents, godparents maybe, or babysitters. 

In the future, after tracking down Cain and having a very difficult conversation, Crawly will joke that maybe that's why Seth never grew up to kill anyone. 

Years stretch and they stretch and they stretch. Adam and Eve have more children, and then those children have children, and then Adam and Eve are gone. 

Nine-hundred and thirty years after their creation they too return to dust. 

Crawly and Aziraphale haven't seen each other in over eight-hundred of those years, but they dig the graves together. This time Aziraphale won’t report the deaths until the two are long in the ground. 

They comfort Seth and the hoards of grandchildren together. And then they go to Aziraphale's place and drink until they can't feel a goddamn thing, until the realization that they will outlive everyone they love except each other fades into the background of drunkenly shared memories. 

It’s the first of many nights like this. 

***

There comes a point, when enough time goes by, that forty or so years feels like nothing at all. Both angels and demons have much better memory than your average human but even for them the slow drag of time can blur memories.

Crawly and Aziraphale meet occasionally, by chance or when they think they can get away with it. It's a struggle to decide whether to cling to the memories of those first forty years or to distance themselves from them, to try to shake off the yawning void of loss. 

They circle each other, think about each other, know each other better than any other living entities. But it is so small in comparison to what once was, the years that stretch between stolen nights mean that the person they meet has intrinsically changed every time.

The flood . . . puts things into a different perspective. 

"They're drowning everyone? Even the kids?" Crawly stares at Aziraphale, horrified. 

Aziraphale's expression is almost completely closed off, flashes of anxiety peeking through something terribly blank. But they nod. "Best not to question." 

Crawly wishes, in a well worn flash of grief and longing, that they could still read the angel. That they were still family. 

"You can't just, you can't just stand here and watch!" Crawly can’t identify the emotion rolling under their tongue. "Can't you, I don't know, appeal or something? Show them when the buggers are being nice?" 

Something flashes across Aziraphale's face but Crawly can't tell what it is.

The demon realizes that it's been over fifty years since they last saw each other, and Crawly doesn't know who this is anymore. 

Aziraphales eyes are flinty, as lifeless as the rest of them. "My opinion hardly matters when it comes to policy decisions, dear." Their hands twist together in front of them. "And it would hardly be the first time." 

Crawly doesn't know if the angel means the first time the Almighty has killed children or the first time that Aziraphale has done nothing in the face of heaven's atrocities. 

The feeling under their tongue is fear. Not of the rain, though they know that will come soon enough. For the first time in their very long life, it's of Aziraphale. Of what Aziraphale has possibly become. 

\--

Crawly knows the angel can sense them, a demon and twelve children hidden deep within the bowels of the massive ship. But Aziraphale doesn't approach, and Crawly is sickened by the fact that they're glad. It feels like a betrayal, but Crawly genuinely doesn’t know if the angel would turn the kids over to Heaven if they lost the thin membrane of plausible deniability. 

Crawly has forty days and forty nights for thoughts to creep in. Forty days and forty nights to realize that, at the beginning of everything, learning and growing with Adam and Eve--in the beginning Aziraphale and Crowley were terribly human.

Crawly doesn't know what they are anymore. 

*** 

Sometimes Aziraphale wishes, desperately, that they were more like other angels. 

Aziraphale is fairly sure it was being on earth that did it, those first years that felt so very long and full. Those first years in which Aziraphale became just a little bit more human, tied themself to the earth and its people. 

It’s made them softer, weaker. Gabriel had been very disappointed in their performance when they first began being assigned miracles, too many questions, too much worry over the effects on individuals instead of focusing on the greater good and the spreading of faith. 

Laughable, really. And Gabriel understands that Aziraphale means well, but look at where the Princpality's lack of perspective has gotten the humans. Kicked out of the garden, Saints doomed to Hell after falling into sin when Aziraphale had been too afraid to obliterate their minds with divine rapture, the flood. 

The flood. 

The flood most of all really, the fact that the guidance of human morality had been the angel's job. That they’d failed humanity. That each lungful of water and flair of fear and pain had been their fault. 

_(But it didn't make sense, none of the rules made sense, why weren't they consistent? Layed down as expectations with explanations for changes or swings of temper. That's how they'd tried to raise Cain and Abel, that's what Crawly always insisted made good parenting - )_

So they were told to watch, to keep quiet and try not to make things worse. To make sure the humans and animals who were meant to survive made it through, and no one else. 

Aziraphale ignores the presence of extra passengers. Aziraphale does not pray that their own negligence will not doom anyone else. 

You never know who's listening. 

*** 

The next time Crawly can feel Aziraphale’s presence, something is very, very wrong. 

Crawly can sense the angel outside the bar, a shady little hole in the wall where Crawly keeps an eye on the drug trade in the area. Crawly doesn't leave to greet them, Aziraphale can come in if they want.

The thought that Aziraphale might have become a loyal enough angel to turn on Crawly fights with the desperate, hopeful thing that screams that they were friends. 

So Crawly doesn't leave, they drink for a few more hours, pausing to sober up now and then. The presence stays, unmoving. 

Eventually the demon is freaked out enough that they figure it's better to find out what the angel wants than to wait them out. They leave the bar, looking around nervously as the presence tugs them to an alley next to the bar, narrow and reeking of piss. 

And there's Aziraphale. 

The angel looks . . . bad. Crawly can’t see them that well in this light but they're not moving, standing stock still and staring blankly at the wall as if they don't know how they got there. 

"Hey." Crawly almost wants their voice to be harsh, aggressive enough to express the lingering anger over the flood, over god's sins and the angel's compliance. 

The word comes out unbearably soft anyway. 

Aziraphale still flinches though, a shudder that travels through their whole body. They don't look away from the wall but they do grip their fingers together and _twist._

Crawly is at a loss. Watching something both so familiar and so alien. They don't know who they're looking at, what's going on, or where they stand. 

"Aziraphale?"

The angel spins to face them, eyes wide and spooked, and Crawly sees them more clearly. Their clothes may have once been nice, some sort of posh Canaan getup, but are now torn and muddy. Even when Aziraphale didn’t have a miracle budget, dirt has always preferred to steer clear. Crawly has never seen them splattered with mud for more than a few disgruntled minutes. 

But it's their hands, bruised purple at the joints and marked in red with the impressions of scratches and teeth marks. It’s the way Aziraphale is twisting them now, absently bending the fingers the wrong way that sends something like ice through Crawly’s corporation. 

Crawly takes a breath and then, because some things run deeper than fear and time, because some things are just ingrained, something that would be asked even if Aziraphale was a stranger. "Are you . . . ok?" 

Aziraphale stares at them for a minute, eyes wide. And then, in a deeply disquieting change of demeanor smiles, rocking on their feet and chuckling nervously they tuck their hands behind their back. "Yes! Why yes of course, my dear, dear demon!" Their voice matches the rest of the unpleasant picture, high and frantic. "I just, I was just, in the area you see, and -" 

"Did you come from Canaan?" Crawly asks, gesturing to the angel's clothes. 

Aziraphale looks down at the outfit with wide eyes as if seeing it for the first time. They still dont fix them though, no snaps to piece back together even one bit of themself. "I-I -" Aziraphale's expression smooths out, flattening in a way that reminds Crawly of how they looked right before the flood and Crawly gets a sinking feeling in their gut. 

Crawly does their best to twist their fear into something harsh, but they know it still shows in their voice. "You're not here to tell me She's tired of these ones too? I thought she wasn't going to flood them again.” Crawly grimaces. “What's it going to be this time, fire?" 

Aziraphale doesn't even flinch this time, glassy eyes directed at Crawly's feet. "Ah. No, nothing like that, no." And then they seem to steel themself, raising their eyes to meet Crawly’s, flat on. "She's focusing her attention on Abram's household right now, in Canaan." Aziraphale's voice has lost all inflection. "Big household, well known around those parts. Very personal intervention you know, domestic." Their eyes wander away from Crawly's, glassy again. "Very into making sure her favored humans have a lot of children.” They pause for a minute and then light up with another disturbingly bright smile. “But, oh dear, Great Plan and all that! Really shouldn't be talking about it with you, silly me." 

Crawly tries to think of some way to respond to that. It feels like Aziraphale is trying to say something that the demon doesn't have all the pieces to.

After another few moments of staring blankly at the wall with a fixed smile attached to their face Aziraphale seems to come back to themself a bit. "Well! I really should be popping off, you know how it is." 

Crawly doesn't know how it is, and is suddenly very worried about what will happen if Aziraphale leaves in this state. They open their mouth to try and say something, invite the angel for a drink maybe, but they can’t seem to get the words out.

And then, very softly, before turning to trot off down the alley, Aziraphale whispers. "Always lovely to see you." And then they're gone.

\--

So, because falling didn’t burn out the curiosity that got Crawly in trouble in the first place, it takes them around three days to insert themself into Abram's estate, as a slave. 

They keep their eyes peeled for grace. Abram is practically a beacon, very clearly one of Her favorites, but Crawly doesn’t think that’s what they’re looking for. 

And then they find Hagar, a slave gifted to Abram by his wife, for the purpose of bearing his children. Hagar has a new baby, and wary, tired eyes. And she's blessed, an angelic signature intensely familiar for all Crawly hasn't been around while Aziraphale has done many blessings. 

But she's not blessed for prosperity or wealth, not blessed with good health or fruitful loins, not blessed for the courage to find freedom. Instead, the magic that's woven ever so subtly throughout her body like a second set of nerves is for anonymity. For people to not think of her if she's not there, forget about her even as she works beside them. 

It would hardly seem like a blessing at all, if you didn't see her fear when she serves the lady of the house, or the flashes of hate in Sarai’s eyes when the woman remembers that Hagar is there at all. 

So Crawly befriends her. It's not difficult. Crawly looks like another female slave, and Hagar is lonely. 

They get drunk together in one of the wine cellars one night, tucked against the wall while the babe’s being taken care of by a wet nurse. 

"Ssso, you ever think of running away?" Crawly's drunk enough that they've given up on both not hissing and being subtle. 

She laughs, wet and bitter. "Did." 

Crawly blinks at her in surprise. "You did?" Then they wince. "Catch you, did they?" 

She shakes her head, toppling back on the cellar floor to point an unsteady finger at the ceiling. "'s God." 

Crawly grimaces, puzzle pieces starting to click into place. "Watz, some kinda martyr deal? Suffer in silence in the name of the Great Plan or some shit?" 

She just looks at the demon for a minute, eyes half lidded. "You believe me." It's not a question. 

Crawly shrugs uncomfortably. "Everyone knows She's been messing with Abram. Her whole thing recently has been promising people hundreds of kids, makes sense that She’d muck around with the poor schmuck being forced to carry them." 

Hagar sighs, directing a half quirked smile at the ceiling. 

They sit in silence for a minute, it's surprisingly companionable considering what they've been discussing. Eventually Crowley prompts, "so what was it? Divine revelation? Prophetic dream?" They have a suspicion, but they want to wait to hear it confirmed.

"Angel." Her voice is lazy and relaxed, the wine doing its job well enough. 

Crawly takes a long pull from the bottle. "What, just appeared and was like _‘oh dear, can't have this, toodle on back so you can pop out some more kids and let Sarai beat the shit out of you for the rest of your little mortal life'_?’" Crawly's Aziraphale impression isn't too bad, cruel, yes, but maybe not undeserved considering the situation. 

She laughs at that, a loud honest sound which doesn't surprise Crawly too much. Gallows humor seems to be one of the few things that'll get Hagar to crack a smile. 

Sometimes humans are wired funny, it's a good thing to be reminded of in times when Crawly starts to feel bitter about the whole species. 

She struggles to sit up enough to snatch the bottle from Crawly. "Not exactly. It, hmm. It's hard to explain." She takes a thoughtful drink. "Was shaped like a man, but I could see the extra eyes, you know? Hovering around." She waves at Crawly. "Can kinda see yours too, but they're blind, mostly." 

Crawly snorts, they'd suspected that Hagar had some sort of sight. When she's not wrapped up in fear she tends to take the weirdness of life with a shrug. 

She contemplates the bottle. "They gave me a choice, actually." 

Crawly raises an eyebrow, that doesn't really sound like Aziraphale but they can't think of any other angels who'd dish out options either.

"Sat down with me by a spring, I was trying to get to Shur. Healed me and gave me some food, and then told me that God wanted me to go back. To deliver Ishmael in Abram’s house." 

Something jerks in Crawly's stomach, imagining it. It reminds them of something, and then they realize - 

Hagar looks nothing like Eve. She's shorter, with a squarer face, skin darker and ashier, eyes flatter. But she would have been pregnant, and hurt, and so so scared. The bravest thing Aziraphale ever did was to help Eve when she needed it, to look at her and decide to give her something that heaven would never approve of. 

Crawly feels sick and angry over it, angry for Hagar and baby Ishmael. Even angry for Aziraphale. Crawly knows, after seeing the angel in the alley, that this hit Aziraphale in a very personal way. 

It doesn't excuse it though. "Doesn't sound like a choice, more like a demand." 

She shakes her head. "Mm. Said I could go on actually, that they'd bless me as best they could if that's what I wanted to do. But they also told me if I did that they wouldn't be able to protect me from whatever God’s punishment would be." She thumps her head back against the wall. "I wouldn't have come back, if it were just words. But I could feel it.” She sighs. “The angel looked mostly fine, a bit anxious, but they were terrified. I kept getting flashes of things, mostly just emotions but some. . . ." She looks lost. "People drowning, screaming and trying to climb as high as they could before going under. A woman shrieking and laughing with light coming out of her eyes. Some other things, all soaked in helplessness and fear." She shrugs. "Figured me and Ishmael wouldn't survive going against the wishes of The Lord, and I wasn't going to risk it." 

Crawly sighs, mouth curling down as they try and blink away tears. "Well, if you ever need Sarai distracted I have a thousand ideas for petty inconveniences that can last long enough for you to slip away." Crawly already has a little demonic miracle tracking both Hagar and Sarai so the demon can be there whenever the two are in the same room. They wish they could have one for Abram as well, in case the man gets any more clever ideas about having his legacy preserved through Hagar. Unfortunately, Abram radiates enough holy energy to be immune to anything Crawly could throw at him. 

\--

Ishmael is fourteen when God decides that neither the boy nor Hagar needs to stay in Abraham's1 house any longer. Of course, instead of letting Hagar travel to another city like she was trying to when she ran away, Abraham gives her a pack of food and water before sending them both into the thrice damned desert. 

Crawly really shouldn't be surprised anymore, by the pointed cruelty of God. But it hurts anyway. 

Crawly leaves with the two, of course, a small snake coiled in Ishmael’s sleeve. The demon would have found somewhere to hide on Hagar but they've been using this form to help Ishmael calm down when he gets overwhelmed or angry. The snake gives the boy something to focus on.

It was Sarah's2 wish and God's order for Hagar to stay in the desert. As they travel further into it and nothing gets any closer to habitable Crawly tries their best to keep their head above the anger and despair. They can tell Hagar is struggling too, trying to sink into an exhausted calm instead of screaming until she can't speak. 

Crawly can miracle food and water, but there's nothing to work with out here as far as shelter or any form of long term habitation goes. Crawly is getting away with this now, fermenting discontent in someone banished by God, but Hell won't let them stay throughout both humans’ lifetimes. 

The angel appears on the fourth day. Not in any flash of light or even a pop, one moment nothing, and the next they’re there. 

At the sudden flair of divine energy Crawly shoots up Hagar's sleeve, poking just the tip of their snout out so they can see.

Aziraphale looks a bit different than the last time Crawly saw them, their clothes are fixed and fairly clean, if not cared for particularly well. Their hands aren't sporting more than a few bite marks, the purple bruising gone. The angel is definitely doing better than Hagar and Ishmael, tired and filthy as they are. 

Aziraphale doesn't speak, folds their hands behind their back, uncertainty flashing across their face before it settles into a kind of neutral blankness. 

In Crawly's opinion Hagar should be incredibly angry at the angel right now. She's not. They know her well enough by now to understand that she's too tired to have the energy for it. Later she will feel a kid of abstract, intellectual anger, but she’ll never really connect with the emotion. 

Ishmael is too tired to really understand what's going on, half asleep under Hagar’s arm. Eventually she asks, flatly, "is there more I'm supposed to do? It would be a bit odd if She wants me to go back at this point." 

Aziraphale inhales and shakes their head. "Ah, no. I do believe that you are no longer needed for the Great Plan. If you keep your head down this may be the last bit of heavenly meddling you'll have to put up with." 

She sighs. “What heavenly meddling are you here for then?” 

Aziraphale rocks back and forth on the balls of their feet. "Ah, you see. Not very, human-friendly out here. I'm just . . . supposed to spruce the place up a bit." 

Crawly doesn't blink because they don't have eyelids, but . . . that absolutely doesn't sound like something that Heaven would care about. 

When Hagar just stares at the angel Aziraphale starts shifting nervously. "Yes, well. Here goes!" 

When Aziraphale snaps, the amount of energy used is huge enough to be felt, and it is not being pulled from Heaven. Crawly has no idea how Aziraphale has managed to build up such a large personal reserve, but the power is definitely being pulled from the angel. 

The ground starts to rumble, finally waking Ishmael up all the way, the boy yelping and clinging to his mother. Crawly can feel the miracle spread out for at least a few miles. Water rises from deep underground, sand mixes with other minerals and nutrients to make fertile soil, plants, fruit trees, tubers, and other things that can be made edible pop out of the ground. As Crawly feels the miracles at work, the lines of irrigation that will continue to flow for eons after this, they realize that this must have taken time. Aziraphale must have spent years learning how to turn a patch of land in a desert climate into a self-sustaining oasis. 

And, if it was learned for Hagar and Ishmael, it must also have required a knowledge of their eventual, ridiculously pointless fate. 

When it's finished Aziraphale's presence is significantly weaker and the angel looks like they're about to pass out. "R-right, right then, should do it - do, do either of you need anything more immediate? I'm terribly sorry I couldn't be here sooner, you see, my supervisor -" they clamp their mouth shut and close their eyes for a second. "Oh, well, probably not." They point to a large jut of rock protruding from the ground. "There's something of a cave system in there now, with some food and clothes to get you started.” They wring their hands. “I do wish you the best." 

A moment before Aziraphale is about to disappear Hagar steps forward and grips the angel's shoulder. 

Aziraphale starts, hunching down and staring at her with wide eyes. 

She looks intently into their face, before sighing. "Keep safe." The words are straightforward enough, but they're said near constantly among the slaves of Abraham's house. Before any task in which someone might return from with injuries, or not come back from at all. There's a haunting familiarity to it, and to the inflection she gives it. 

Aziraphale's face crumples, and for the first time in a very long while Crawly is hit with a wave of familiarity, looking at the angel. 

Aziraphale, ever so carefully, takes Hagar's hand in both of theirs. "You too my dear, I hope -" their voice wobbles, "I hope you're finally safe here." 

The two hug, something that Crawly doesn’t fully understand passing between them before the angel disappears. 

Crawly doesn't know what to think. 

***

The crucifixion of Yeshua is horrid, and tragic, and makes that tight little box in the back of Aziraphale's mind where everything they don't like thinking about goes shake and scream and beg. 

It's also not nearly the worst thing Aziraphale had been ordered to witness. 

They've learned to function through it, to smile and fawn and try their best not to question. Their superiors are pleased, and whether or not Aziraphale is actually making anything _better_ at this point, they're at least no longer making things _worse._

The horror of what the Great Plan still seems to require, even without Aziraphale's own failures, is one of the things shoved quite firmly into the box. 

Oh and it really is lovely to see Crawly again. Or, Crowley. They really must do their best to get used to the new name quickly. That and the she/her that the demon has decided to try on for a bit. It is a lovely name once they've rolled it around in their head for a minute. 

As they continue to watch a man scream as nails are driven into his wrists Aziraphale searches wildly for a conversation topic. They're not a fool, they know that Crowley isn't their friend anymore, not after the flood. 

But Aziraphale has never, not in 3967 years, stopped missing her. A small yawning hole in the Angel's chest, right next to the ones for Adam and Eve, for Cain and Abel. The hole for Crowley is fresher though, with the demon so close, with little glimpses of her here and there that make mourning a confusing, drawn out process. 

So they stumble for something. "W-what was he like?" They shift their weight back and forth. "You know, I was never really allowed to talk to the fellow, more of a hide in the bushes and make it look like the lad’s doing miracles situation." 

Crowley nods up to the stage, "It’s what is he like, angel." She looks very tired. "For a few more days even, if he's unlucky." 

Aziraphale's shoulders slump, it's true and it makes something in the back of the angel's throat burn. "Quite." 

It takes Crowley a long long moment to say more. "An odd lad, really. Didn't seem to -" Crowley hisses softly at her own use of past tense, but present seems worse somehow, acknowledging the current state of the man instead of skipping forward to the end. "Kind. No real sense of personal agency, hated being worshiped, tried to reason it as really being the worship of God, not him." The demon's hands clench as they glance at Aziraphale with a hint of challenge in their eyes. "Said that God told him that the people he converted would be saved. He was afraid of what they were being saved from." 

Aziraphale's nails are digging into their palms again, that careful blankness that they haven't had to school their face into in a while settling to hide anything close to anger. The box rattles, and the questions that always play in the back of their head, questions that are always imagined in Crowley’s voice, whisper in their ears. 

Crowley turns away, their own fists clenched. Then slumps, the anger seeming to drain into exhaustion. "So. Did you literally hide in a bush for any of the miracles? Sounds . . . scratchy." 

\--

Aziraphale returns to the crosses very late in the night. For a Principality human legs are easy enough to break. It's the least, the only, thing they can do. 

*** 

Crowley has been having a completely shit decade. 

Which is funny because recently all of their jobs have been ridiculously easy. Better than easy in fact, sometimes they show up for one and the human they're meant to tempt has come up with something more vile and creative than anything Hell had imagined. 

Crowley already knew that human cruelty at its most creative could give Hell a run for its money, but they're so tired of having their nose rubbed in all of the worst of it these past years. Tired of people getting hurt for such stupid, petty reasons. 

They go to a bar after one such temptation, fully intending to see if their corporation can get alcohol poisoning. 

Their feelings about seeing Aziraphale are . . . mixed. When the angel first approaches, Crowley is hit with that familiar swirl of anger and grief that never seems to completely go away. But Aziraphale is, they're being pleasant, is the thing. Making a small joke out of their roles as an angel and a demon. 

And Crowley realizes that, even if they know what Aziraphale is now. Even if somewhere deep in their heart Crowley still grieves for the humans they both almost were so long ago, maybe they can build something from this point. If they both understand that they are nothing of what they once were, they might be able to begin again. 

Satan, at least Aziraphale is familiar. Crowley already knows what Aziraphale is capable of tolerating to toe the party line. At least they don't have to try and figure it out, try to root around and pull out the worst of the angel. 

At least the oysters can be swallowed whole without attracting too much attention. Makes them taste like weird slime and seasoning instead of ash. 

Might've been why the angel chose them. 

*** 

Aziraphale starts seeing Crowley more regularly. Often not even on accident, both of them lending a hand if they sense the other is in a spot of bother. 

Aziraphale rejects the idea of the arrangement at first, it re-lights the fear of being caught that was so prevalent once they started seeing each other after the death of Adam and Eve. But in the end, they're run down, exhausted by too many jobs on too small a miracle budget, and too lonely to not take any excuse to see the demon. 

It's fun, actually, tempting isn’t all that much worse than miracles. They both come up with elaborate rendezvous and code words together. 

And Crowley is so, so kind. Aziraphale already knew they were, remembers before the flood when Crowley would take any chance to meet, would bend over backwards to make Aziraphale smile. Before that, even, in the beginning, when the demon was young and eager to please, like a magpie collecting anything they thought the others would like, showing love and delight with little gifts and acts of service. 

After a dinner of oysters in Rome Crowley starts indulging Aziraphale again, gift and favours trivialized with groans and dramatic complaints. 

Aziraphale thinks that they might be friends again, a bit. 

And then Aziraphale gets the bookshop and they _are_ friends, they are. People who aren't friends don't sit together and drink and tell each other ridiculous stories about their very long lives. 

"And then!" Aziraphale wiggles their fingers, "And then a priest walks into the bar! One of the lads I was supposed to be influencing!” 

Crowley is giggling already, flush drunk and happy.

“The poor boy sees me in the dress, you know the blue one with the silk shawl? Anywho, in that dress, trying not to make a fool of myself as Morris tries to show me how to jig, the poor boy ran out of there like I'd set his trousers on fire!" 

Crowley is hunched over their drink, shaking with laughter. "How was working with him after that?" 

Aziraphale huffs a dramatic sigh. "Oh, terribly awkward, as you can imagine." They tap their mouth thoughtfully. "Though, I think he was more fascinated than anything, and it's not like he could out me without explaining why he was there in the first place." 

Crowley grins dopely at Aziraphale, eyes still shining with laughter. Then they frown, blinking at their wine glass with a sort of puzzled dissatisfaction. 

Aziraphale hums. "Everything ok, dear?" 

Crowley furrows their brows at the glass. "Ngh, oh!" They light up like they just figured out the answer to a problem. "Come here!" They tap the spot on the couch next to them. 

Giggling Aziraphale totters up and over to the couch sitting down with a soft thunk. 

Looking quite pleased with themself Crowley plops their head into Aziraphale's lap. 

Aziraphale feels a bit like someone has punched the air out of them, if having the air punched out of you was in fact quite pleasant and not completely awful. 

Fingers shaking, stomach fizzing with a happiness they haven't felt in over a millennia, Aziraphale's corporation remembers an age old habit and the angel begins carding their fingers through the demon's hair. 

***

During the nebulous period of not quite time after the fall and before days started being a thing, Crowley was loyal to Hell. 

Or maybe loyal isn't quite the right word, but demons all tumbled down together, pulling each other out of the sulfur burnt and scared. 

And Crowley thought, well, they thought things would be different this time. Everyone was hurt in the same way, everyone had to try and look out for each other now, right? 

When a system began to establish itself, Satan at the top and newly appointed Princes relaying his messages, Crowley thought they’d be allowed to ask questions. 

When that assumption got them slammed to the ground by a Duke for daring to ask about the reasoning behind some of the new regulations, they learned that nothing much had changed at all.

So they found something else to be loyal to. 

\--

"Toes, why do you have toes do you think? I mean do any other animals have toes?" 

Eve scratches her cheek thoughtfully. "Monkeys? But I can't think of any other animals, what do you think they're for?" 

Crawly frowns down at their, somewhat scaly, but still human shaped foot. "I suppose you could hold things with them? But you already have hands . . ." 

Eve puts a hand next to one of her feet, wiggling both fingers and toes at the same time. "Yeah, toes are way stiffer. I don't think I could carry things with them very easily, and I'd have to walk on my hands, do you think I can walk on my hands?" She sounds delighted, happy to be questioning her surroundings with someone who has just as much curiosity as her. 

"Maybe? It looks like it might work, but arms are thinner, here let's try . . . "

\--

There wasn't any dramatic realization about which side Crowley would be on when it came down to Hell or Earth. From Eve onward it was just a simple truth, reinforced by countless humans as the years went on and Crowley became gradually more disconnected from the politics of Hell. 

Which, unfortunately, has the side effect of Crowley being very aware that sooner or later they're going to make a decision that lands them with a big fat traitor stamp on their forehead.

They're not sure what that decision will be yet but as Hell begins to influence the bits of technology that humans have started to come up with, Crowley finds themself needing to be more careful than ever. Eyes are everywhere, well, ears are everywhere, eyes won't be everywhere until webcams are invented. 

And currently Crowley has absolutely no way to defend themself. 

They've been thinking about it for a while by the time Hastur slinks up to Earth for a check-in and catches Crowley babysitting for their neighbor. 

The frog demon scowls down at the two giggling toddlers playing tug of war with Crowley's cane. "And you're saying you're not going to eat them?"

Only halfway distracted from the game the four year old who Crowley has dubbed ‘slightly taller twin’ scowls at Hastur. “Eat you first!” 

Hastur flicks a tongue into their own eye, looking somewhat perturbed, which has both the children giggling at him.

"See, see Hastur, this is your problem!” Crowley gestures to the kids with a flourish. “You have no vision! Four years old and they already want to take you apart and consume your flesh, isn’t that right kids?" 

The twins cheer and gnash their teeth. Crowley gives an internal sigh of relief, children are unpredictable and they’d figured it was a 50/50 chance between enthusiastically agreeing and being grossed out.

"I've said this to the council before! Pure evil potential kids are, influence them young and they'll spread evil like poison!" 

Energized on the encouragement of chaotic energy one of them hits Crowley in the knee with the cane. 

Hastur scowls, reluctantly impressed. "Yeah, but how many of your kids have actually grown up to accomplish real evil?" 

Crowley can feel sweat prickling at their back. They've been getting by on the ‘influence them young’ excuse for over five thousand years and no one has checked in about it yet. If Hastur does that now Crowley is fucked. 

Trying to affect a lazy drawl Crowley leers. "Oh nearly all of them. Remember the French Revolution? One of my little spawn set that whole thing off." Crowley can feel the metaphorical shovel digging their future grave. 

Hastur smirks. "Well I guess I'll have to check back on these little maggots, if your previous ones were so . . . impressive."

Crowley claps their hands together and pastes on a grin. "Right, right, great! Is that all?" 

The frog demon is still smirking. "For now." Hastur doesn't even wait until the humans aren't around to sink into the ground. Stupid bugger is probably one of the ones who thinks that kids don't remember anything before they turn five. 

Crowley groans at the excited squeals as the twins demand to know how the magic trick works, and starts trying to figure out how to ask Aziraphale for Holy water. 

***

Aziraphale’s fingers are tingling. It’s an odd sensation to note when one’s only friend has just asked you to provide them with a way to kill themself, but it’s one Aziraphale catalogues anyway. 

There are other sensations of course, their stomach feels a bit like they just missed a step for instance, the void of it yawning unpleasantly as they turn to Crowley. “Out of the question!” 

The rest of the fight goes by in a blur, and ends with the angel storming off as the note burns in the water. 

Aziraphale’s not sure how they get home, is half way through painting the circle on the floor before they realize that this is a fuck up that heaven won’t fix. There’s no confessing to their mistakes here, no asking for guidance, no Gabriel telling them what to do to not make the situation worse. 

Crowley’s a demon, they won’t help. 

Aziraphale stares at the white smudges on their hands and laughs. Imagine that, going to the Archangels with an _‘Oh dear I seem to have flubbed it a bit, didn’t notice that my best friend is of the mind to go belly up if things get dicey, don’t suppose you could help prevent a demon’s untimely demise?’_

Aziraphale can't do anything about it on their own, they know what happens to humans when they try to help without direction, there’s no precedent for it to be different with Crowley. 

Aziraphale doesn't know how long they stay on the floor, staring at their hands. 

They don’t see Crowley again for seventy-nine years. 

***

Crowley’s entrance would have been very cool if it wasn’t for the church. 

They’d imagined it cool at least, swaggering in with a wink and a tip of their hat. Very suave, very ‘yeah it’s been a while but I’ve been very busy, hardly noticed, dinner?’ and less ‘I burst into tears the other day because I saw a duck with ruffled white feathers and it reminded me of you, please be my friend again?.’ 

Unfortunately, the floor burns like hell - like heaven? Hell doesn’t really burn and a lot of it's frozen over. Anyhow, it’s all they can do not to scramble up onto a pew and awkwardly hop from one to another, which makes their entrance less than ideal. 

They’re not distracted enough to miss the way angel’s eyes go wide though, locked onto the demon’s face. Aziraphale looks shaken and Crowley can't tell if it’s from the threat of discorporation or from Crowley stumbling to their rescue after nearly a century of radio silence. 

Aziraphale is still staring at Crowley when they slip into the passenger seat of the Bentley, hands clenched tight on the book bag. 

Crowley doesn’t drive off right away, trying to resist the urge to return Aziraphale’s stare, to drink in every detail of the angel’s face and reacquaint themself with all the bits they’ve forgotten. 

Sucking in a breath they scramble for something to say that’ll distract from the somber energy. “Ghn, ah, so! What’ve you been up to? Lots of sirens tonight . . . explosions, you know.” Crowley really shouldn’t have asked the angel to miracle them both safe, standing in line to fill out discorporation paperwork would be less awkward.

Aziraphale is silent for a moment, frozen, staring at the demon, before bursting. “I’m sorry!” 

The panic in Aziraphale’s voice takes Crowley off guard and they swing around to stare at the angel. 

Aziraphale is twisting the handle of the bag, something wild in their eyes. “I can’t, I still can’t get it for you, I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley opens their mouth hopelessly, guilt churning in their gut. “Aziraphale I -” 

“No, no that’s untrue.” Crowley’s not sure the angel even realizes they’ve cut them off, voice rising in pitch and speed. “I could get it for you, but I won’t, I’m choosing not to, so if you want me to leave I und -” 

“Angel!” 

Aziraphale’s flinches, squeezing their eyes shut and cowering into the back of their seat.

Crowley's thoughts are a mess of disconnected syllables and consonants but they manage to fumble out, “it, it’s ok, it’s alright. I’m not going to ask again.” They already weren’t but they don’t even want to now, the remaining anger over the thought of the angel not caring about their friendship draining away like puss from a wound at the sight of how shattered Aziraphale looks. 

Aziraphale doesn't respond, face still twisted in misery until Crowley, not sure what else to say or do, starts driving to the bookshop. 

It's not a long drive, a small miracle ensuring that nobody notices the sleek car driving around in the middle of an air raid. Another rather larger miracle blocks the pain radiating from their feet.

Crowley can't help sneaking glances at Aziraphale who's still twisting the bag handle in their hands, eyes vacant.

Crowley, worried, decides to take a calculated risk3 and screeches around a corner fast enough that two of the Bentley's wheels lift off the ground. 

Aziraphale, seeming to come back to themself enough to realize that they're trapped in a tin box with a mad demon, screams and clutches at the door. "Oh good Lord! Slow! Slow! CROWLEY SLOW DOWN!" 

Schooling their face into an expression of mild confusion Crowley lifts their hands off the wheel and furrows their brow at the angel. "Wot, it's not like anyone's in the street." 

Aziraphale shreeks as they narrowly miss a street lamp. "CROWLEY! DO YOU KNOW HOW TO OPERATE THIS CONTRAPTION?!" 

Crowley lazily places a hand back on the wheel. "Yeah, course. Taught myself." 

The look of wide-eyed panic on the Angel's face almost has the demon giving up the game and descending into giggles, but they restrain themself and pout at the Angel instead. "I thought I was doing quite good." 

Aziraphale stares at them with absolute horror for a moment before frantically pointing at the front window. "Road! Watch the road!" 

Snickering, Crowley decidedly does not do that as they pull in front of the bookshop, safe and sound and with one wheel over the curb. 

Aziraphale stays frozen for a moment before shouting with the same frantic energy of the drive, "IN!" 

Crowley pushes their glasses up on their head so Aziraphale can see them squint. "Wot?" 

Aziraphale coughs, still wide-eyed but seeming to calm down a bit. "In. As, I mean to say, would you like to?" They gesture to the bookshop. 

Crowley lights up, sliding out of the car and going round to open Aziraphale's door for them. "Of course, angel." 

Aziraphale's nerves seem to return as they enter the shop. The layout of the place is unchanged, but it's older, the bookshelves worn, the windows cloudy. Unfamiliar books and dust and smells. 

It feels closer to home than the flat that Crowley spends most days in. 

Aziraphale isn't looking at them, fiddling with the bag again. "Ah. I should put these away, please feel free to sit." 

Crowley does, somewhat awkwardly. The old couch doesn't seem to have aged nearly as much as the rest of the shop. 

Watching the angel flit around returning the books to their proper place and tucking the bag away somewhere, Crowley wonders if trying to crack a joke to clear the awkward air would be in bad taste. 

Luckly Aziraphale starts talking before they can say anything truly idiotic. 

"A-Ah, would you like some tea? Coffee? I have wine, and liquor, an um, well you've never seemed to like food overly much but I'm sure I can acquire some if that’s changed." 

Crowley shifts awkwardly. "Yeah, sure, whichever is fine." 

Aziraphale just looks more panicked at that, opening their mouth again, probably to list more options, when they suddenly snapping it closed with a frown. "My dear, are you, maintaining a miracle? I can feel . . ." their eyes widen in distress. "Oh your feet! I forgot about your feet! Oh no, let me -" 

They dash out of the room, returning with a cake pan full of water and some dish towels. 

Crowley squints at the supilize with suspicion. "Is that really how people take care of burns? Aren't there like, oils, or something?" 

Aziraphale rolls their eyes. "Oh do hush, you've been alive for over five thousand years I know you've treated burns the human way before." The angel kneels in front of them and taps a knee. "Stop pretending that you're wearing shoes please!" And then in quieter mumbling. "Honestly, could have worn real shoes, going into a church, bloody stupid, headstrong -" 

Crowley obediently offers Aziraphale a still scaly but less shoe shaped foot. "Do you ever think about the fact that getting burned is just, your flesh catching on fire? Like that's why you have to put it under water fast because it might still be a bit on fire like a, hmg, mostly burned log with an ember inside?" 

Aziraphale looks flabbergasted as they carefully wash Crowley's feet, picking out splinters and bits of rubble as they go. "I can quite honestly say that I have never thought about it like that." 

Crowley nods thoughtfully, grateful that they have the energy for at least another half an hour of pain blockage or what Aziraphale is doing would hurt very badly. "Has anyone ever tried to burn you alive? Like, that is just such a messed up way to go, especially if the first things to burn up are non essential. It can take a while to get a normal log started, and humans are mostly liquid." 

Aziraphale looks thoughtful, the nervous energy from earlier mostly drained away. "Oh, a few times yes, and one would hope that the smoke inhalation would get you first. Passing out from not being able to breath is a tad better than passing out from pain." 

Crowley points at Aziraphale. "Yeah, yeah see that's how humans normally die of fire, but that's when it's not literally under their feet." 

Aziraphale looks worried, placing Crowley's feet in the cake pan snapping their fingers to summon a wine bottle into their hand. "Do you think if you stood in a church long enough you would actually catch on fire? That would be a terribly slow burn." 

Crowley examines the wine bottle dubiously as Aziraphale uncorks it and tips it over the demon's feet. "I think you're supposed to use a different kind of alcohol for that." 

Aziraphale tuts. "Oh no, I miracled it medical grade, this was a terrible vintage anyway. A gift, you know."

Crowley nods, gratefully. "Well, anyway, I’d hope it'd be like the sheep." 

Aziraphale frowns, still kneeling on the floor. "The sheep?" 

"Yeah like, like the, so, there are these sheep, see." 

Aziraphale nods, following along. 

"There's these sheep on this, elevated bit of ground, and there's a fire on one end that's being blown towards them, and no way off." 

Aziraphale frowns. "Well how did they get up there then!" 

Crowley throws their hands in the air. "That's what I wanted to know! But the guy who told me about it wouldn't say. Maybe they were mountain goats?" 

Aziraphale shakes their head, getting up to sit in their normal chair, leaving Crowley's feet to soak. "Oh no, that wouldn't make sense, they'd have no problem getting down then." 

Crowley nods thoughtfully. "Oh yeah, that's true. Well anyway, you've got sheep on one end and fire on the other, and then half an hour later the whole top of the pl-plato is that what they're called?" 

"Oh no, dear, that's that funny little man with the cave, you're thinking plateau." 

"Yeah! So the whole thing's burned, right? But the sheep are fine. Or, I bet their feet hurt because the ground's hot, but not burned to death. You know why?" 

Aziraphale thinks for a moment. "I haven't the foggiest, will they be able to get down though? I can't imagine there's anything to eat up there if everything's burned."

Crowley thinks about that. "I hope so, maybe the fire was blocking the way down, that would make a lot more sense actually." They hum. "But they're not dead because they jumped over the fire and got to the side that was burned already, since the fire didn't have anything more to eat over there." 

"Oh!" Aziraphale's eyes light up in understanding. "So the hope would be that the burn, if you stayed in one position in a church, would be like trying to set fire to a log in the place it's already been charred? And that the bit that's already been burned doesn't have enough flammable material to catch on fire again." 

Crowley snaps, grinning. "Exactly!" 

The two immortals smile soppily at each other for a moment before Crowley sits back and sighs. "Satan, I missed you." 

A soft "Oh." is all the warning they get before Aziraphale bursts into tears. They should have expected it really, with how freaked out the Angel's been. The sobs have Crowley scrambling to their feet in a panic, almost tripping on the cake pan in their haste to get to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale's hands are covering their face so Crowley crouches down and softly butts their own head into the angel's shoulder, wrapping their arms around Aziraphale's back. 

The angel keens, frantically gripping the front of Crowley's shirt and burying their own face in Crowley's neck. 

"Shhshh-shhhhhh-shhsh." Crowley's hiss makes shushing embarrassingly snake-like but they do their best. "I got you. I got you, we're still friends, right?" The question is certain and comforting, nothing like the tone Crowley thought they'd be asking it in. 

The angel nods against their neck, and Crowley rocks them till they're cried out. 

Crowley stays in the bookshop for two days, catching up and bitching about consecrated ground and getting gloriously drunk in order to pass increasingly ridiculous hypothetical back and forth with the angel. Eventually they make plans to get lunch at one of the little restaurants still hanging on during the war, and Crowley heads home to have their own little overwhelmed crying jag. 

It really is good to see Aziraphale again. 

***

Churches are rather unreasonably tall in Aziraphale’s opinion. They must be big of course, to hold so many people, but somewhere a community gathers should be a bit . . . warmer. So much open space is just uncomfortable. 

It is rather odd that Aziraphale’s been sitting in one so long then, clutching an empty thermos on the sanctuary steps.

Sergeant Shadwell had reported back that morning, confirming Crowley’s4 plan, and reassuring Aziraphale that the demon seemed like a perfectly respectable capo who probably had the right number of nipples and everything.5

It's selfish, to not want to be the one who gives Crowley holy water. Crowley has decided to get it themself, and no human will understand the true danger of what they're handing over. Aziraphale can at least do it safely. 

The thermos they got for the occasion is black which suddenly seems . . . not right. With a tap of a finger it's Aziraphale's personal tartan. 

They stare at the thing, what are they hoping for here? That the reminder of themself might give the demon pause if they think about using it? That seeing their own identifier next to a smoldering pile of goo will remind them exactly who is responsible if Crowley dies? 

They don't even want to look at the bénitier, but they get up to stand in front of it anyway. 

They've thought about Crowley's death a lot since 1862, how Crowley might do it. Would the demon dump it over their own head? Drink it? 

This Holy water is not very strong, but it would kill a demon who drank it. It would kill them very slowly, as they curled up on the floor, hours of being burned from the inside out. Unable to scream with a burnt throat. 

Aziraphale places a hand in the water and the fount lights up with a flash of Holy energy. 

Carefully, they fill the thermos, miracling it against leakage. 

\--

They tell Crowley it's the holiest when the demon asks if it's the real thing. They don't tell them that at least it will be quick, over in no more than an excruciating minute. 

They'd pray that Crowley never unscrews the cap, but, well, you know. 

***

"Oh, oh, Armageddon!" 

Crowley splutters against the payphone mouthpiece. "Yes, Armageddon! Don't tell me your side didn't tell you?" 

"No, no, or rather, I think he tried. Gabriel is, hrmm, that is to say, I can be a bit slow on the uptake. I'm sure he was being perfectly obvious." 

"Perfectly ob - oh sod it, just come meet me at the fourth rendezvous."  
.  
.  
.

1\. Formerly Abram [ ▲ ]

2\. Formerly Sarai [ ▲ ]

3\. The risk they took was calculated, but man, they’re bad at math. [ ▲ ]

4\. Rather overly complicated  [ ▲ ]

5\. Shadwall had met Aziraphale when investigating rumors of an immortal fae running a bookshop in Soho5a. Quickly reassured that Aziraphale was in fact a very different type of fairy he figured he might as well do some fundraising for the army by offering to spy on the man’s5b ex. 

5a. Shadwell wasn’t in the business of fighting fairies of course, but figured that people often mistake witchery for other types of magicks. 

5b. Jannet from the Good Place voice: Not a man. [ ▲ ]

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me over at [munchmulch](https://munchmulch.tumblr.com/)


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